How The Mighty Have Fallen
by The Design Nerd
Summary: The all-seeing eye has clouded over. Separated from the demon he called himself for as long as he can remember, the elusive triangle is a mystery his empty human form can no longer comprehend. Struggling against confusion and forgotten enemies, William M. Cipher must stitch back together what the demon has torn before it's too late. It seems the most powerful fall the hardest.
1. The Slip: Prologue

**First things first, I would like to say that yes, I am alive, I'm loving the second season, and I'm still in the fandom. I came up with the idea for this story months ago and have a bunch of it written out, so I'm not lying here when I say updates will be more frequent. However, as of 9/22, my access to internet has been just about compromised, meaning no Twitter or Tumblr and I basically only have the time and means to update here. So, you lucky people who read this story of mine are the ones who will get a heads-up on my situation. Looking at you, aBoxOfMuses or Generic Poetic Term or Sam.**

**Basically this story follows the ironic situation Bill, or well, what's left of him, is placed in. It starts out establishing what exactly is wrong and begins to delve into adventure and chaos in later chapters. It's darker than my usual stuff, but it'll still have interesting and funny dialogue and not to mention a bunch of sarcasm. I'm having an absolute blast writing this thing and I hope just as much that you will enjoy it, too. It's startlingly creepy how easily I can get into the mind of a madman gone mad. But, I love to admit it, but I _love_ it.**

**So without further adieu, ladies, gentlemen, triangular dream demons, and all those in between, I give you the prologue of How the Mighty Have Fallen:**

* * *

><p><em>Empires inevitably fall, and when they do, history judges them for the legacies they leave behind.<em>

-Noah Feldman

* * *

><p>The thought's just at the very edge of my mind, about to tip over, but somehow there just isn't enough energy to pull it into consciousness. I let out a sigh. Sighs are a lot easier to come by when you have a mouth. Sure, that statement sounds out of place and a little deranged, but if you're used to being a one-eyed two-dimensional triangle, which I doubt you are, you would see my point. Or, uhh, lack thereof. Literally speaking.<p>

You see, I used to be human back in the day. Long story short, I was killed by a bunch of imbeciles. They basically sucker punched me, betrayed me, and eventually burned me to a pile of ash, but my triangular form survived. Apparently, though, where _my_ earliest memories begin is right smack in the middle of my story. It's probably actually a lot more skewed toward my later years. I remember growing up, having to wear a lump of turquoise around my neck to keep me in check, and after a few fights, moving out, eventually to this weird town. This same weird town where I inexplicably feel at home. But, I was just told that there was time _before _that time. That I had existed before I existed. That my human body was more or less a fleshy cage. That I had changed after I accepted my prison.

Coincidentally, not too long ago, I used my power to retake over a near-perfect replica of my body from the past. It was fantastic! I could exist on your plane again, use a small subset of my power on the physical world. My conscience, unfortunately, returned along with it and it snarled and snapped at the back of my mind every chance it got. I hate to admit it, but the thing affects my actions, steers me in the right direction, keeps a steely vigilance on my thoughts…thoughts…what was I saying?

Oh, right, of course. What does any of this have to do with my current situation? Well, you might as well sit down. Sitting? Good. I actually _survived _a second exorcism. The triangle part of me disappeared without a trace and now it's just me. I'm a human just like you. No powers, no mystic mind magic, no nothing. Now you can see the problem. I was never _not _Bill Cipher up until this point. I was simply a cage, an empty shell that he could be housed in for a few decades. I always thought of myself as special, a diamond in the rough because I had superhuman abilities, but now I sorely realize that that wasn't me.

It was the demon. And he used me.

It just came to the center of my attention that the person I thought I was all my life and afterlife was a lie. If that won't get your thoughts in a mess, I don't know what will. Now, I'm a hollow tube of a lanky blond guy, a six foot four chasm. More and more of the triangle's memories drift away each day and I wonder what parts of me _are _me…Or if there truly is a 'me.'

It's getting harder to function and recall anything here lately and trying to keep up the charade around my now-close friends (his close friends?) is driving me up the wall. First I was the master of the mind and now, it seems without him, I've lost every ounce of control of my own. A simple 'remember that one time' turns into a fleeting mental rush to find anything remotely resembling the memory. Sometimes the thoughts are almost in reach, but others, it seems, have disappeared completely. The feeling's foreign and uncomfortable and I would do practically anything to have a perfectly aligned mental order again, to return the shape to my form.

The person closest to me noticed though, right off hand. It was something simple I'm relatively sure, but I, for the first time, drew a blank. They looked me up and down, questioned if I was okay, the works. Even they knew something was unnatural and wrong and I still cannot to this day remember what that memory I was searching for was. So, this is why I'm writing it all down, so that one day, when I'm barely into my physical twenties and have the combined memory capacity of three elderly women with their skulls beaten in, at least someone will know where I started to drop off. At least someone will know how the once-mighty William M. Cipher has fallen.

~William Mischief Cipher


	2. Cold Snap

**Ah, yes, this is where things have gotten interesting. He may seem out-of-character, but keep in mind the situation I've so cruelly tossed him into. I've been working on slow builds and planning out big events for, well, feelsy reasons. You can't have zero attachment to a character and have something happen. You have to, as both a writer and reader, get used to them and understand them and all that good stuff. Character development, slow changes, tiny victories, and then main things. Yes, your English lesson is complete. Onto the update:**

* * *

><p>A frigid cold not only permeates my suit, but finds its way into my thoughts. I don't know why I even wear this thing. What's with the yellow? Where did I even find one with bricks? Maybe it's time for a change. I mean, the material doesn't even keep me warm. This is only important because the walk from my house to my job and back is excruciating. It's a modest job, I work as a butler for the Northwests, but there is something about the young heiress that makes me frustrated. Like she was a part of something bigger than just being a spoiled rich kid, but I can't place a finger on what.<p>

I keep picturing ice and llamas for whatever reason. Who has these random thoughts? Do you think of people in relation to symbols? …Don't answer that. I don't want to make myself feel any crazier. The job's boring and requires practically no mental strain (mostly because the little blonde terror changes _her_ mind every three seconds), so I'm satisfied. I'm off now and I realize this carefully-studied walk home wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the biting cold and my near-constant state of sleep deprivation. It burns at my eyes and my legs, both the cold and exhaustion.

You see, I keep having these nightmares that involve candles and a few blurred figures. For some reason this feels ironic, despite my inability to grasp exactly _why. _They always end the same: a burst of light, a tearing feeling, a triangle, and me shooting awake, drenched in sweat, shaking. I'm too old for this to be a normal occurrence; I'm no longer a child, so it worries me. What am I missing?

I'm snapped out of my reverie by these two kids that make a determined beeline to me and claim they know me. That's pretty random. Well, okay then. They probably do. They look about the heiress's age, so I'm sure they've seen me around. Twins, I'm assuming. When I ask their names, they don't reply, just scoff and tell me to stop playing dumb. One keeps on the topic of possession and forks and the other prattles on and on endlessly about her great-uncle's mind. Chasing a shape, calling me a Dorito for some reason. O-kay…

For whatever reason, I find myself angry at the girl who claimed she won against me in some, what I'm assuming to be, karaoke contest? Defeated me with music somehow? They back away a few cautionary steps in unison and the boy tilts his head, like he was expecting something showy and I didn't deliver. I must have looked confused or something because the girl turns to her brother and shoots him a concerned look. He returns fire with a glare and a terse shake of the head; a quick 'Trust no one.'

She, against her brother's wishes, steps forward with a sympathetic, bittersweet smile and asks if I am okay. I shrug, still wearing that oddly-colored suit over my shoulders. I can't seem to part with the thing. The girl, who I've randomly decided seemed to fit into the category of astronomy, asks me a few questions I can't accurately respond to and ends with a worried inquiry of my name.

"Well, I'm William Cipher," I reply nonchalantly, "Yanno, work over with the Northwests. Is that where ya know me from?"

She cringes either at the heiress's name or my reply and goes about talking not-so-discreetly to her genderbent double. He seems firmly rooted. Like a tree. There I go again with inanimate objects and people. Suddenly, a constant string of questions fly into the air, this time from his side and naturally, I'm tangled up hopelessly in a web of perplexity, blank spaces with only a few thin connections between. This seems to throw them into turmoil.

She starts, "His eyes aren't yellowed or slotted!"

"I know, but-!"

Well, obviously not! Where would they even get that idea?!

"He hasn't even tried to attack us, bro-bro. _He doesn't even recognize us._"

"Bill's evil. He's probably just trying to gain our trust! And then the journals!"

I wave my hand. Hel-lo? Still right here next to you!

This continues for a while, with me awkwardly edging away from being the third wheel on a very confused bike. They both notice and tell me to stay put and I freeze, cringing. Apparently listening is not something they're accustomed to seeing and it even throws the one in the hat for a stunned loop. And suddenly I'm being carted back to the Mystery Shack. It's one of two perfectly-planted tourist traps. The Northwests are consistently talking about how peasant-y it is. I can't say I disagree. Aside from that fancy rug in front of that vending machine, it only contains the cheapest of useless baubles and trinkets for the easily-swayed tourist. That rug with the providence eye, though. Now _that _is a nice choice in flooring.

"I thought we took care of him! That ritual should've made sure he was weakened enough that he couldn't take a physical form! Why'd you bring," the proprietor bites the word, "_Cipher_ in here."

Hat kid edges his way in, "Yeah, I know it seems crazy, but he's not doing anything! The guy's hardly even talking!"

They stare at me like some sort of science experiment and I eventually pipe up quietly, bored of being talked about and gawked at like I'm some object and not a person, "Can I go home now?"

The elderly man looks completely flummoxed, "You mean you don't want to try and destroy the journal from under our noses? Nothing…" He chooses to lean against the snack machine and gives it a couple curious knocks, "…you want to investigate?"

I point behind me to the exit, "Err, no sir, only thing I wanna investigate's dinner, maybe watch some Netflix…"

He raises an overgrown brow, "Did you just…_sir _me?"

I cringe. Obviously he hates being called sir. How was I supposed to know?

"Yes?"

He removes his glasses and buffs them with his fitted suit, before replacing them on his bulbous nose where they belong, like I was possibly an illusion pasted onto his frames. The man returns to a quizzical look and with those plumage-like eyebrows paired alongside layers of stress outlining his clouded eyes, he reminds me of an owl. A slightly familiar owl. I find myself thinking of doubles.

"Cipher," He ruminates on my name for a moment, "What's with you..?"

"Not really sure what ya mean," I roll my hand, searching for a name, "Uhh…"

He obliges brusquely with a darting glance, slightly weirded out, "Stanford."

"Well, Stanford, not really sure what all this," I take a moment to gesture to the awkward situation, "is… and this has been nice and all, but I think I'm gonna go home…"

The trio blinks a while in my general direction and I take that as my cue to leave. Zero out of ten would not recommend the Mystery Shack. Terrible customer service.


	3. Stumped

**I've realized just how much I love writing in a point of view. I have the opportunity to live a life through someone else's eyes and give away tons more details and little things that click or fall apart in their minds. It's fantastic. It feels...right. I can write so much faster this way. I also currently want to shred my personal copy of The Fault in Our Stars. Reading it was a terrible idea that I love and hate at the same time. Don't worry though: no metaphorical cigarette smoking in this tragedy. The only fault's in this confused triangular dork.**

* * *

><p>Rising from the faded yellow chair and heading toward the door, I weave back through the gift shop, and make it outside. They follow behind curiously and stand at the door, thinking I can't notice. Standing in the middle of the parking lot, I realize I have absolutely no idea where I am. I normally have only a few highly memorized routes through the town, but there's so much undeveloped forest around here that I can't see any familiar landmarks. Great.<p>

I feel their eyes weighing on me and I don't like the heavy feeling in my chest it's creating. Turning toward a couple different paths in the forest, I alternate between weakly pointing and feeling the slight stubble on my face. I'm only trying to remember which one I was dragged down. Of course I wasn't paying attention. Just my luck…I'm lost and I can't seem to wipe this look of utter dread off my face.

My better instinct tells me not to ask for help, probably a pride issue there, but the girl in the shooting star sweater cautiously tugs at my coat. That's it! Shooting Star! The name catches on something in my mind and sticks. I revel in the feeling of figuring out the astronomy connection and wistfully smile for a split second, before looking back to the paths…if only that was what clicked. A quick glance to the perpetually-worried boy and an angry Stanford puts me on edge. She pulls again and I fall from my thoughts, giving her a short 'hm?'

"You're not okay, are you?" She asks and my eyes dart like crazy. Of course I stand my ground.

I straighten confidently, hands behind my back and then just as quickly deflate onto a randomly-placed stump, "…No."

Way to stand your ground, William. I inwardly curse at myself and I think she can tell. I look out from under my messed hair and my theory's confirmed. She lilts her head to the side and clicks her tongue with an 'aww.' Great. Just what I need. Pity. Just the thought of someone feeling bad for me forces an involuntary cringe onto my features. I regain my composure, my hand automatically snakes its way behind my neck and I sigh. Guess it's time to ask.

I summon up the nerve, not meeting those pitiful eyes, my voice starting from a low mumble "D'ya know the way back ta town? Maybe near Main Street or something?"

That sickening expression on her face only increases in magnitude. Eugh. I really hate this feeling. I should know this. I really should. This place is familiar enough, but it's the location that's not. Her eyes search for a moment and she runs back to the two males on the porch, dragging them along, out to what could now be considered the community stump.

"I don't care who he is, Dipper. We are helping him. Just this once. He's lost."

Dipper? That can't be a real name. Sure he's got a birthmark like the constellation, but I don't get it. Who would name their kid—

"He can't be lost. He knows this town like the back of his hand. He told us himself! Isn't that right?" The oddly-named child points his finger to my chest, right under my tie, and adds in an unnecessary glare toward me for good measure. He's expecting a confirmation. Except I don't recall any of what he's described, so I blankly follow his arm to his face, shrink a little under his gaze and shrug.

"Can ya just help me get home?" It sounds way more pathetic than I intended and I curse myself again. In all reality, I'm reaching a breaking point here. This is embarrassing and cruel and I'm panicking a little and the sun's casting long shadows across the field, signalling the approaching darkness. Stanford glares at me, insists he won't fall for my games and carts the twins back inside. The girl looks back at my shocked expression, tries to move back, but is hurried along like I'm some serial killer and the old man locks the door behind him. I'm alone.

And suddenly everything catches up to me. The sun is setting. These people just left me here on who knows what grounds. I don't understand why they have a vendetta against me; I'm exhausted, cold, and I don't even know where I am. I wish I'd never come across the two kids and that I was back in my schedule where everything fits and clicks and I ensure I never have to worry about these sorts of situations. A tense feeling grows and warps through my chest and everything's surreal. I can't focus, my breath's hitched, my heart races, and I hold tight onto my sides, still sitting on that cold, unforgiving no-longer-a-community-stump.

This strange, all-consuming warm-cold numbness has me trembling and I give up hope they're ever going to return. So I stand, suddenly lightheaded from my episode, and blindly choose a path a la 'eeney, meeney, miney, you.' All the while, I'm keeping an iron grip on myself, because I'm honestly afraid for a moment that I'll fall apart if I let go. I start off down the worn, darkened trail and hope with everything I am that it's right. Even if it's not, well, it's better than staying where I was.


	4. Misguided Mistrust

**I've added author's notes to the other chapters because they seemed so... bare... and sad... and lonely. Feel free to stare dramatically at them. They like it, but not in a weird way. I've connived my way into a few glorious, fleeting moments of internet access, fellas, dames, and likewise, and looks like there's an update. I've been having money and job troubles and hey, I'll take what I can get, even if it is just updating a few internet friends on the latest exploits of a certain amnesiac William M. Cipher.**

****Seriously, anything makes this nightmare of a backwoods town more durable, much like Bipper's fork-loving noodle arms. After applying to places today, I disassembled a door. _A door. _For _fun. _I laid on my driveway for a solid twenty minutes staring at a tree. I then proceeded to repeat the same with a small plant. I stirred a gallon bucket of maroon paint for a while. I drew tallies on my arms. I walked around with my arms up at ninety degree angles like Bipper for a while with a Dipper hat on. It feels just as unnatural as it looks. This place is depressing and maddening without distractions.****

**At this point I'm upset with the Pines, but they have every reason to distrust Bill... and maybe that journal was right, but for who? In Gravity Falls, there is no one you can trust. More secrets are revealed in this chapter that I'm particularly fond of.**

* * *

><p>Welp. These are trees. Nothing but trees, trees and rocks, the occasional fallen branch from a tree pressed into the snow, and more damn <em>trees<em>. It's like an artist just copied and pasted the same thing over and over. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere because there is no sound of cars, no nearby roads for me to follow. There's no getting back home tonight.

I've stopped panicking and put my energy toward something else more useful: viciously tearing away at this innocent evergreen sapling to curb my anger. I bet _it's_ not hopelessly lost at sundown. It's got roots. It has a reason. It has its place in the world. The baby tree practically taunts me, begging my wrath. I pull at the thing again and lean into it, using my weight as leverage. Just when I can feel it tearing away, my frosted black gloves slide straight off the smooth needles and I land not-so-gracefully on my back, an unfading ringing resounding through my skull. I hiss at the pain and that traitor of a pine tree.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't a better use of my time after all. I look up at the never-changing pine forest from the ground and sigh. The pink-on-the-edges clouds are heavy with snow. The cold winter wind knocks a little snow onto my knee and I don't even bother to brush it off. It's unusual how the snow can make night so bright and blue. It's beautiful. My situation may be hopeless, but hey, I have to admit: I couldn't pick a more beautiful frigid night to be forced to spend outdoors.

The clouds part for a minute and a few early stars shine through in the purplish hue of evening. The momentary moon lets the icicles glow. I barely feel a smile creep onto my lips, but I know it's there. I curl up into myself because it's cold and I'm suddenly exhausted. The world is still ringing and I feel the need to shut my eyes. I suddenly feel nothing.

I'm in that familiar surreal place again, dropped in. A thick, choking odor comes from nowhere and I look down. I'm covered in cryptic henna drawings. No, no, no, anything but this again. It makes me sputter and cough as I try to escape this tiny, unbroken circle. I'm trapped. The three figures loom closer and closer and my breath hitches in my throat. I'm on my knees, begging for mercy, but there is none; a burning sweeps through my every nerve. I'm on fire, I feel like I'm torn in half, and then I wake up, screaming.

The figures are still there. I retreat back toward the corner created by wall and headboard and curl up, shakily pulling the blanket toward me as if it will stop them. I sincerely hope it does. I don't want them anywhere near me. Suddenly, I'm wracked with a coughing fit and find a cautious hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but when I look back up, the three figures are replaced with those twins and their uncle, the girl's trying to calm me down, I'm in a bedroom. I swipe at my welled-up eyes and realize I feel awful, run down with a high fever, my head's throbbing in some areas and stabbing in others. Good news though: the smell's not an ink; it's some sort of topical cold remedy. The container stares blankly at my bare chest from the nightstand and I glare back. The nerve of the clear eucalyptus goop!

"Hey, shh, it'll be okay…" The girl awkwardly pats my shoulder and I realize I'm still breathing like a maniac. I manage to get it under control. The other two stand off to the side, looking slightly guilty, but otherwise still cold as stone. Stanford goes on about the twins finding me unresponsive the day after I left, how I've been out for a couple days here, that this is the last thing his visitors should have to deal with on their winter break and how they should have left me for dead in the snow. He attempts to joke at the last part and the younger ones laugh, but I see through it. He's serious. Had it have been him who came across me in the forest, I'd be a goner for sure. I don't join in, I solemnly mess with the quilt on my legs. This man's a monster.

The twins insist on giving me soup or tea or pain medicine, but I refuse anything they give me with a shake of the head, no words. I don't trust any of them. I don't want to be poisoned. I don't want to be here. I still want the same thing as before: to go home. I feel the drain of the lack of nourishment though and it takes its toll.

Eventually, the man in the fez walks into the room with soup. He half-apologizes for the crack about leaving me for dead two days ago and thrusts the warm bowl into my hands. A little burns my my palms as it splashes over the edges and I freeze up, staring at it with horror. I'm hungry, sure, but I will sooner waste away to nothing than dare eat this probably tainted—and that's when he takes a second spoon from behind the first, dips it into the broth-covered noodles and eats it.

"It's not gonna kill ya, but not eating will," He simply states, hands me the clean spoon, and wordlessly urges me to try it. I look blankly between him and the food in front of me, bring a spoonful to my face and hesitate. The man pierces the silence with a low growl, I sink a little and finally give in to one scoop, then turning and devouring the entire bowl of savory chicken noodle.

"…Did you really think that I would—..?" He ruffles his hair, pushing up that curious maroon fez, dumbfounded. Automatically, I feel nervous looking at the symbol on it. I edge slightly away from him and speak for the first time in days.

It's a quick, quiet fact and boy do I sound rough, "I don't trust any of you."

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Real quick before I go: SOOS AND THE REAL GIRL SPOILERS: <strong>**_Oh my gosh, Melodyyyyy. She's such a loveable dork and her character design is so cute. I wish I could have as much of a cute factor as a cartoon character that works part-time at a meat-skewering shop. Giffany is terrifying and even more terrifying is the fact my name is Tiffany. So... close... tomyname. Hands down, most terrifying girlfriend award goes to that pixelated, overbearing anime girl._


	5. The Providence Eye

**Yes, Kylee it worked, hah. Thank you all for the reviews! Well, you .000000001% who leave them anyway. They're fantastic and make my day.**

**Welp. I've got the time and means at the moment, so I figured, hey, why not throw a new chapter out there? This one's my favorite so far. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>The statement of my mistrust apparently leaves him confused and he asks for a repeat. I am not a fan of offering up the same sentence twice, even on a good day, so I shrug and continue to stare down at my bowl, absently swirling the minimal remaining broth around. It's something to do. I don't like sitting still.<p>

"I'm not an idiot," I remind him, voice scratchy. Maybe laying off it was a good idea.

He retorts, "Says the guy who got lost in the forest he constantly watches."

"I dunno who ya think I am," I start with an edge, "But I'm pretty sure I'm no forest ranger or anything."

By the end of that sentence, my voice has used up practically all its ability and it kinda creates a silent staccato squeaking, fading in and out in little points of sound. Fantastic. Guess I'll keep quiet. He pointedly insists that I am this triangle guy who deals with the mind, can remember even other peoples' memories, and that I'm messing with him. I can't help but laugh. Quietly, genuinely. It devolves into coughing, but I don't care. It gets my point across. That's ridiculous! I place a hand on his shoulder trying to steady myself, doubled over in hysterics. He backs away from it and shrugs it off quickly, overgrown brows lowered and jowls set in a not-very-impressed way.

I squeak out a reply, hardly understandable because of the sudden onset laryngitis and my laughter, "You, ya think that I'm some sorta mystic brain Dorito?!"

"Well, when ya say it like that, it's uhh…"

"Insane? Contrived? Cuz that's what I'm getting at, old guy," I've calmed down by this point, mostly because my throat feels like someone's sanded down the interior, force-fed me pineapple, then tossed a brick at it. It's a real moment-ruiner. The man is about to stand and leave, frustrated, when this laughter comes out of nowhere, literally nowhere, and whoever or whatever it's coming from is deranged past the point of no return. He freezes in his place and so do I, my eyes still searching for the source.

This triangle, reminiscent of the eye of providence and that peanut salesman helping the genocide of his own species shows up, black silhouette at first, then a brilliant yellow. He's got a little bow tie on his front like he' s hardly avoiding being nude and an exaggerated idea of a top hat to match. A bright yellow cane makes this eerie synthesized wooshing sound as he spins it in his impossibly tiny hands. Nothing about this creature is natural. He seems to smirk and dangles his undetailed snakelike arms over the previously mentioned cane. The shape stares at me with his lone elongated pupil, which animatedly warps and swims over to Stanford.

"Yeesh, Stanford. Did ya sin-cere-ly believe I'd be this pathetic?" His arm follows no route and stretches a few feet like it's nothing, straight to my face, flicking my nose then messing my hair. The limb snaps back into place like a tape measure, almost comically. Almost. He starts up that maniacal laughter again, this time sounding more amused. It's as if the guy or whatever wears a perpetual smug grin under those glowing bricks.

I put a forearm arm up in defense for the second onslaught and fear something worse, flinching. He seems satisfied with my action and creates a terrifying amalgam of tooth, hair and phalange out of thin air, hands it to me and cheerily names it Dostoyevsky. The mass of fingers twitches, moves in a tarantulan way up my arm and tries to bite me. Naturally, I drop it and it scurries off under the door. I think it's rabid. How can you tell again if a horrifying mess of flesh and exposed bone has rabies?

And on that token, what sort of disturbed thing creates such nightmares so easily? If I had any guess, I'm assuming this terrifying apparition likely plagued Pythagoras until he came up with a theorem. The shape has no mouth and yet the nasally cackling continues, bouncing off the suddenly dulled and greyed walls of the room. It's exactly as the befezzed man explained. I can't believe my eyes. Or for that matter, my ears.

I realize something. It's _my voice. _Pitched up and doubled over itself in a sort of way that it's warped and demonic, but still undeniably my voice. My very accent, my same odd inflections. What _is_ this monster? He answers my thoughts and I feel violated.

"Well, _duh_," he says playfully, literal visions of my name in air quotes hanging in the space above him, "'William,' I'm you! Sorta. Well, you're kinda my go-to human form. I was trapped in there," a quick reach through my chest sends shivers up my spine, "for _years. _Gotta say, not half-bad. VERY durable limbs."

The sentient pyramid squeezes my arm with nails I don't see, _hard._ It draws blood and he laughs at my obvious pain, gesturing like mad as if it's a feat of my bicep's strength. Eventually he releases my limb and I realize Stanford looks about as dumbfounded as I do. We both blink up at the isosceles monster for a good while and he becomes impatient with our silence. The entire room goes up in bright blue flames to get back to the matter at hand.

He slaps a hand to his eye and chuckles, "You really are _nothing _without me, huh, William!? A job serving people and taking orders? Ya don't even," he falls into a little fit of laughter and slaps a knee, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just: ya got lost in the—AHAhahAH!—ya got lost in the forest you've walked and floated around in for practically a century!"

I sink, crossing my arms, face heating up. I'm really hating this guy, what a jerk. Wait wait wait. Did he say he was me? Century? What?!

He morphs to this horrific glowing red, growing, "That's right, William, Mister McJerk TriangleFace is a part a'you! Most a'you really. There's hardly even a functioning person left!"

He returns to yellow and shrinks to about three feet, I'm assuming his neutral state, and pats me condescendingly on the head, all while feigning faintness with a hand over his bulbous eye, "Poor little fella, can't even remember his way around town!"

Stanford finally says something after struggling for words, "You mean h-he—and you—and…?"

"If ya mean your pointless attempts to defeat me were an overwhelming failure, then yes!" he closes his eye, an illusion of a contented smile, "Aheh, yes they were!"

The bricked triangle does that mouthless smirking thing again and holds out a frigid hand for me to shake, "Hello William Cipher, lamest form a'the name by the way, just saying. I'm Bill Cipher! Nice ta, eheh, 'meetcha!' Well don't be rude! Take my hand!"

"Uh, wouldn't do that if I were you," the gravelly voice of the man next to me suggests with a shake of the head. I shrink away from him. There is no way I'm touching this freak of nature, if he's even the slightest bit organic or natural to begin with…

"So, Mackerel, I bet you're wondering why I'm here!" Bill continues to the older man without a confirmation of his theory, swooping down to face him, "Well, ya see, I can show up with this guy anytime I want! No need for summoning or sleep. We're sorta…" His eyeball turns red, his voice darkening, "…bonded."

I pipe up, throat still on fire, "So ya came here ta torture me?"

"Oh that's so adorable! He's caught a cold!" Suddenly, my cheek's being pinched by those same sharp digits that put four holes in my arm. I grit my teeth, turn away quickly and his claws rake gashes across my pain-contorted face. A burning coolness running down my cheek confirms my thoughts: he's done more physical damage. I give him my most determined glare. He retorts with a witty comment about my abundant weaknesses, naturally.

Then, out of the blue, it's the first time he's serious the entire time he's been here, "No, I've come ta say that ya better be watching your backs, all of you. Once I iron this final detail out, I'm returning. Like I've said before: I've been watching you and I'll _keep _watching you. And I will see you again. Especially…" His hand's entangling my shirt collar and I find my feet are leaving the ground. The physics of this situation make no sense. I accidentally make eye contact and immediately look away as he glares, "…_You_."

I'm hurled back to the ground in a heap and he flashes away with a noise as unnatural as his existence. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, meet up with the base of the bed I've been sleeping in and touch my injured face with a flinch. I hope this doesn't happen again, but he seemed persistent. Stanford's staring off through me, shocked. I've since brought up my generous allocation of leg to my chest, melting into my scattered thoughts, staring down at my slightly crimsoned, shaking hand.

_What exactly does he want with me?_

_Does he want to be me again?_

_Is he trying to kill me?_


	6. Questionable Motives

**Ahh thank you for all the reviews! I'm in a particularly good mood right now because I've got commissions coming in, a job painting some crazy cat man's cat lady wife with a deceased cat, and a good shot at a full-time job. There's an eclipse happening as I type up this A/N and I just updated Lil Ol Me. Honestly, this is a great day-night-morning...whatever. This chapter's a little more of a filler than the precious, but it's got a bunch of good bits that get built upon later.**

* * *

><p>"So you're not messing with me."<p>

The old man finally speaks up, looking sideways at my disheveled appearance. I shake my head, then my eye involuntarily twitches over a quartet of parallel cuts in response to the moderate pain or something. I don't know. I'm a mess in every conceivable way. I'm still wondering what this guy's motives are and this triangle flashes in uninvited with nefarious plans too? Is everyone out to get me?

To be honest, I'm still unsure if the isosceles guy was an illusion or not. I rub the back of my head and wince. It still throbs. Maybe my concussion caused wild hallucinations? Yes, definitely a hallucination. I must've scratched myself in my sleep or something. Yeah. Stanford reaches over to grab my chin and I grit my teeth as he turns my face to get a better look.

"Yepp. That's gonna scar. Triangle guy really did a number on you, huh?" He states, looking very slightly concerned as he releases his hold. Okay, hallucination theory, very quickly out the window, circling the drain, shot in the face. If he for sure saw it too, it must be real. Some of those questions return to my mind about plans and motives, but they're mostly related to Bill now. If that really is his name.

The twins wander in, freeze and cringe in unison. They speak at the same time, "What happened?"

Stanford ushers the kids out and closes the ornately-decorated door behind the three of them, intent on having a conversation in hushed whispers that aren't nearly hushed enough. I can make out most everything once I'm up against the door. Hey, don't look at me like that. You'd do the same.

"He's _not Bill._ I know, crazy old man talking here, but he's separate. Triangular Bill showed up and tortured the guy. Didn't even fight back, he was petrified."

"Is that what happened to his face?"

A gruff tone translates roughly to yes.

"But Grunkle Stan, it says right here in the journal, he can't cause harm on the physical plane without a vessel and—"

"Must be a special case, kiddo. He can show up at any time around him. Neither of us summoned him or drifted off. It was eerie. I think we might hafta—wait just a second…I feel like I'm being watched."

The door flies open and I'm knocked off balance over a dusty chair and tumble backwards into an abandoned corner filled with abandoned boxes.

"Spiderwebs! Spiders everywhere!" I scream and flail, practically scrubbing the tiny bits of disgusting, dusty thread off my face with a sleeve, likely reopening wounds in the process. Feels like I'm coated in the arachnids so I try running backwards from the source and trip over an end table. I end up knocking both myself and an aged lamp onto the floor with a crash. My legs are tangled up in the broken light's cable. The three of them stare at me in disbelief and I clear my throat, regaining what cool I can salvage from the wreckage as I kick away the binding cords.

"I-I'll buy ya a new one," I offer with a futile attempt at being smooth and a flourish of hands, looking upside down at them from the floor with a sheepish lopsided grin. I'm sure my face is bright red as I entangle my hands over my chest in a nervous-but-trying-to-be-confident-and-sincere gesture. That's a real sentiment, right?

"And this further proves my point, kids," The man shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and I don't know why, but I wave up at the trio in the tiniest of ways. At this, the boy then mirrors his great uncle. I fully realize what I'm doing, curl up my digits and stop waving, making my mouth as tiny as possible. I've made this even more awkward.

Then Stanford looks at me in this _way. _I can't fully explain this feeling, but the man seems suddenly tenser around me in a different way, clearly skirting around something, avoiding direct eye contact. The kids don't have this same aura and I'm glad for it. I get to my feet and try looking for my belongings, still aiming to go home.

Something strikes me out of the blue; I've missed work for days, entire _days_. Not late, just nonexistent. I swallow hard and remember the last guy who was simply a few minutes late working for the Northwests. I never saw him again. Sounds a little extreme when I put it in those terms, but I'm slowly realizing that I've likely been fired and I don't like the feeling. My nearly-dead phone is still in my pocket, so I pull it out and slide my thumb across the hairline-cracked screen. A line of strongly-worded texts alongside an unnatural amount of missed phone calls confirms my theory and my features fall. I could barely pay rent as it is. As I'm lost in my own world, the smooth device decides it's gonna leave my possession ahead of schedule, slide right out of my hand and clatter to the floor.

The girl picks it up and glances to the words, "Fired? But you've been sick! And all," She struggles for the correct term, "unconscious-y! Why don't you tell them that?"

"…I've probably already been replaced," I admit, rubbing that sore spot on the back of my head until it stings again and my vision fizzles slightly with oblivion at the edges. Okay, noted, it does not like to be touched. It retaliates. I feel my eyes unfocus and flutter; this nauseating lightheaded sensation comes along with it, a package deal. Through my slight haze, I think the trio notices. There's a lull in the conversation, a thick silence as all twelve of their eyes focus on me. Wait, that's probably wrong. People normally have two eyes, right? So it should be two, four, six? Curse you blunt-force head trauma, you ruin everything.

"Well you could work at the Shack! You know, since you're not the _evil _Bill! Isn't that right, Grunkle Stan?" She beams up at her uncle who cringes and holds up his hands in defense, shaking his head. The typical 'Oh why did you say that don't say those things ahh why would you even consider.' Yepp. He's on-board…a different train completely.

"Mabel, sweetie, we can't just adopt the paranormal off the streets. They're not stray cats," He says, then looks to me, "No offense."

What is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to liken myself to a starving cat? I'm a human being! Not someone's pet that just followed them home! …Eats their food, stays in their house, needs taken care of…Okay so there are a few parallels, but I'm still gonna take offense! And Mabel. Interesting name, a little old-timey, but I've decided it fits her. She's an okay kid. At least someone around here has a little bit of a heart.

Dipper, still not sure if that's just a nickname, starts a hushed-toned conversation with Stanford and the old man nods, making a few affirmative noises. I sit on the old couch in the room to soothe the floating feeling above my eyes and notice a more richly-colored spot in the floor. I assume a carpet was left there for decades and got a break from the colored flecks of light pouring in through the stained-glass window behind me. Why am I staring at slight differences in wood tones? Why do I even care what was on the floor? I definitely have brain trauma. A gruff repeat of my name snaps me out of my stupor.

"Huh? What?" I swear I'm the most articulate person on the planet.

He clears his throat and couples the words together underneath it. The twins give him a unified elbow to the side and he repeats.

"You're hired."


	7. The Stumble

"IIIIIIIII never signed up for this," I raise a finger in objection to the man in the fez. I've been sent to 'feed the cheapskate,' whatever that means. A paper plate of barely-edible crackers covered in a questionable substance I've deduced to be peanut butter is thrust into my hands. I think I see one move. He points to a seven-foot display case, featuring the words 'THE CHEAPSKATE' written on old computer paper in permanent marker and gives me a strict 'Go.'

Staring into my eyes are the petrified, bloodshot ones of another: a horrified person behind salvaged museum glass covered in glued-on hair. The, uhh, the guy's covered in fake hair, not the glass. He claws at it, creating streaks with his hands and clasps them together, begging me to release him. I feel a certain kinship with the fella. No doubt he's woken up here without a clue once, too. I make a mental note to bring him something actually _edible_ later as I open the top and offer up the loose definition of food. What kind of freak show does this guy run? How many innocents have been transformed into exhibits? I'm positive this isn't legal.

"Cipher!" His biting tone knocks me out of my reverie. I look over, "I don't pay ya ta make friends with the exhibits."

"Right, uhh, sorry," I give the person trapped in there a sympathetic look as he devours the rations and settle the lid back in place, "Just outta curiosity, how'd he become an exhibit?"

"He refused to listen to orders. Now keep working before I gain a 'Lazy Employee display," The man snaps his eyepatch back over his glasses and twirls his cane with an act of showmanship, pointing the eight-ball crutch to the redhead behind the counter, "Though, truth be told, Wendy's got you beat."

She shrugs nonchalantly, "Meh, at least I could nap."

A squeaking sound of brakes sets the typical routine in motion. Everyone cranes their heads toward the window, takes in a rough guesstimate of the amount of people pouring out of the bus (for _what _I'm still not sure) and Stan puts on his staged grin and mystical demeanor. Here we go.

I've only been working at this place for a week or so and I've got it down: sweep, increase prices twofold at the register, glue stuff together and give it a funny name. It's only slightly more tolerable than the deal with the Northwests. The Pines offered me that bed in their spare room, probably so the guy wouldn't have to pay me near a living wage. It's okay I guess. At least I've got a job, right?

An eyed triangle is visible only through the glass reflection and I jump slightly. Bill hasn't been giving me a break, going on about deals and memories and such, appearing in my dreams and sometimes right in the middle of conversation, much to my chagrin. I try ignoring the pestering shape and I'm positive I look crazy when I watch him mess with the other people in the room. What is _up _with this guy? He's got more screws loose than I do, setting people ablaze with invisible fires, creating nightmarish horrors right within their presence, shapeshifting into others simply to make me look crazy.

Sometimes, I lose track of what's real, telling people to look out behind them or subtly (or not-so-subtly) move them out of the way. He gets a kick out of this every time. Jerk. His constant presence is blurring my lines of if I'm awake or asleep. Half the time, I'm not sure anymore. It would make sense I've been drifting off, seeing as sleep's hardly come to me since that day with Stanford. I would give anything for him to just _stop._

At the thought, I feel a soothing warmth ripple through me that's hard to ignore, as more tourists filter their way into the gift shop. Oh no, not now. Not now. I shove through them and an angry Stan. Everything unfocuses for a second and my limbs grow heavy. He's pulling me back in. I struggle for the door to the living room and barely push through the swinging entrance before—well at least I'm finally getting some sleep. I'm plunged into the grey and black-toned space yet again. There's a slight doubled-over blur to it that's making the dimension unreal, which it very well may be.

"Ah, William! Long time no see!" The glowing triangle chuckles briefly and gives a grand, excited gesture, complete with gold confetti and spirit fingers, "I hear you're willing to make a deal, so I pulled a few strings!"

My arms are lifted, but not by my own will. He's got a small set of sticks in his hand; I'm a marionette. I lower my lids and set my jaw. I'm not impressed and he can tell, so he drops the act, disappointed he got none of his desired reactions.

"I didn't say anything, actually," I counter, stoic, finally (and unfortunately) used to the polygon's presence.

"You thought it. Ya want me ta stop visiting you while you're awake, hmm? I can arrange that!"

Okay, even I have to admit, this is suddenly sounding useful to me, despite him _being _the problem I want to resolve. Mulling over the idea, I nod and try working the details out in my head of how this could go down, but he beats me to the punch, never stopping in his smooth movements as if he can't sit still. I guess we _are_ similar in a way. But my mind keeps turning, gears in a well oiled machine for once. What else could I get out of this? How could I make this more beneficial to me? Then it hits me. He's supposedly the master of the mind and _me_, so he's got the one thing I want most.

"So, bean pole, I stop causing admittedly _hilarious _hallucinations mid-day and I get a little reunion with ya by night. Ya won't even know I'm th—"

"Memories," I state plainly, honestly, "I want memories, functional short term, long term, the works."

He seems a little taken aback by this, wavering for the first time I recognize, well, ever. Is that a slight twinge of fear? Remorse? Sympathy? I don't get a chance to figure it out before he hardens his resolve again with a less-than-Billish chuckle and a dart of giant catlike eye.

"_Truuuuust me, _kid. You do _not _want that back," He starts, inspecting his hands, more specifically his nails, trying to look casual, "Seriously. If anything, I've done you an accidental favor. Yeesh, talk about everything you know would change! No, I don't care what ya tell me, even _I _won't grantcha that."

* * *

><p><strong>Ah, another installment of this one. After discovering Bill's ability to pull people into the dreamscape at will in that new guide book, I couldn't resist! Let me know how this is going. I may find it great, but the vast gap in Favorites and Follows is something I've never seen in any of my stories, well, ever. It's slightly disconcerting. A little encouragement or CC is always nice. I finished up Lil Ol Me after seven eternities, so if you're up for a Gideon backstory, it's all there. Sidenote: Stan trapping a random person for use in his displays seems eerily similar to my old Ask the Author story. Amiright?<strong>


End file.
